


Only Shadows

by legoline



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 07:31:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legoline/pseuds/legoline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Dean's last night, and they can hear the hellhounds coming. Set after 2x22.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> For Pix.
> 
> Beta by Drvsilla.

The hellhounds are coming. Sam can hear them though the hounds are not coming for him. Considering how it feels, they might as well be. 

Their barking echoes somewhere in the far distance, annoucing that they’re going to be there soon to take Dean away. There is still some time left, if not much. A short few hours, already at the sickle’s blade, ready to be chopped. Sam pulls his knees up to his chest and entangles his fingers, pressing the palms against his calves. His fingers tremble, bouncing against his cold skin through his jeans. 

Over on the other bed, Dean is slouched against the head of the bed, arms crossed before his chest. He’s staring straight ahead and Sam wonders whether if to him the hounds sound louder. 

Dean wanted it like this. No fighting, no begging, no running. Just them, awaiting whatever will come for Dean, without a final futile stand. Quiet, he wanted. Said he was done running, done trying to find a loophole that isn’t there. Said he is ready to go. Said he’d prefer to leave in peace. 

Sam argued, pushed, begged but Dean had made his mind up and so they booked themselves into a motel that falls in the “Above Their Usual Standards” category, complete with minibar and a television that’s barely a year old. Dean’s last seven days, and they’ve gone by so quickly, run through Sam’s hands like a breeze in fall he just couldn’t grasp. 

They’ve barely left the room, and the days and nights have gone by in tight embraces and kisses on their necks, in moaning and breathing and crying and fucking themselves mindless, hands everywhere, sliding down spines and thighs and the curve where Dean’s back ends and his ass starts. There’s been sweat, lots of it, and after a while the air in the room had turned into a thick wall of heat and humidity. There was grabbing and needy clinging, and pain, and whispered names in quiet hushes and wild throes.

Tonight, though--tonight there’s none of that, not even whispered names. They’re already apart, sitting on different beds and Sam can’t stop the shaking, can barely surpress the tears that are choking him. The windows are closed, the door sealed off and still he’s freezing, feels like held captive in an icy embrace. 

Dean’s a shape in the semi-dark, an unmoving shadow and Sam has to force himself to look away or he’ll burst into tears and not stop until the morning. He can’t do that--he’s got to keep his head clear and his appearances up as best as he can; he owes Dean that much.

It’s the goal that all his focus is fixed upon: keep his game face on. What happens after that, when there’ll be no more need for the charade, when Dean’s--Sam hasn’t thought about it. He’s peeked over the edge of the wall he’s built, and what he saw scared him. Too much to think about it.

So he sits, and he hides his face behind his arms and cold creeps in through the gap between his shirt and his skin, though the thermometer insists it isn’t cold in here. Just warmth. It doesn’t feel like warmth. From the night stand, Sam’s watch is ticking away time. So close. Not long now. 

“Sam.” Dean’s voice is so quiet, gentle, like he’s guessed Sam’s thoughts. Sam looks up and sees Dean making an inviting gesture. “Come here.” 

It’s a plea. Sam can’t deny it, no matter how much the touch burns, how each word is like a needle right to his heart. 

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and shuffles over to the other bed; in the twilight he can only vaguely see the mattress, so he steps forward slowly, one foot at a time, reaching out with his hands. Suddenly Dean’s hand finds Sam’s arm, and he guides Sam to the bed slowly, pulls him closer as Sam crawls on the mattress and huddles up next to Dean. 

Dean’s arm holds Sam tight; it’s wrapped around Sam’s shoulder and presses him against Dean’s chest. Sam keeps his hands by his side, turns his head away until Dean tucks it under his chin with gentle force, and begins to stroke Sam’s hair. 

Sam shuts hs eyes tightly, because maybe that will stop the tears from coming. If he just won’t open his eyes, he can’t cry. It’s as simple as that. Dean’s fingers still run through his hair, steady and soothing, and each time the fingertips touch Sam’s skin it’s like someone candles a fire; like electricity shooting through his body. He tenses up and jerks away, can’t help it really, but Dean just pulls him back into the embrace. 

“You’re shivering,” he says, breath hot on Sam’s neck and another tremour shakes Sam’s body.

He reaches for Dean’s shirt, holds on to it. He wants to reply, but he can’t. The moment he opens his mouth, he will turn into a sobbing mess. 

Dean’s arm is still around Sam’s shoulders, cradling him. Strong muscles and hot skin; arms that have held him and protected him since Dad put baby Sammy in Dean’s arms over twenty years ago. Sam knows every inch of Dean’s army by heart-- his face, his torso, down to that little freckle by his bellybutton. He can tell when Dean is scared, or happy; he’s studied him for so long that Dean fits him like a second skin. They’re one, cannot be parted, and when they rip Dean from him, a part of Sam’s soul will go to Hell too. 

Hell. _Don’t go there, Sam. Not now_. 

“Sammy.” Dean speaks quietly, as if he’s afraid to scare Sam. “You have to promise me you’ll be fine.”

Sam shakes his head, a whining noise—almost a sob—escapes his lips and he presses his face against Dean’s shirt, against his chest. He can hear Dean’s heart beat under cotton, strong, and he sobs again, loudly this time. 

“Sammy.” Lips touch Sam’s hair briefly and then his brow and Sam grabs the t-shirt harder, bites his lip until it goes numb. 

“I could come with you,” Sam finally, finally croaks, tiny and high-pitched like a child. The plea resounds in the dark, and quietens down, leaving behind a vast emptiness. Until Dean speaks again. 

“No.”

 _“Please.”_ He’s begging. He’s begging to walk into Hell with Dean, into fire and ashes and pain unlike any pain he’s ever endured. It’s madness and thank God Bobby isn’t here to hear him, Bobby or Dad but--Hell, in all its horror, can’t be worse than being left behind here in this world. In between shadows and shades of grey; to stumle through the fog, never knowing where to end up, soulless and alone. He’d rather go with Dean, no matter what they would become; at least they’d be together. 

There’s a brief pause, and all that Sam can hear is the steady pounding of Dean’s heart. He shuts his eyes tighter but now the tears are just coming, and they press against the lids and finally find that gap between lashes and skin, and break free. They run down his cheeks and end up in wet puddles on Dean’s shirt but Dean says nothing, just rubs Sam’s shaking shoulder. 

“You can’t always go where I go,” Dean says. He sounds half-amused, light-hearted. Like he’s been digging around in memories and just remembered all the times when they were just kids, and Sam wanted to do everything that Dean did. Fire a gun, comb his hair a certain way and when Dean talked about getting a tattoo, Sam almost went ahead to beat him to it—not realising Dean had only been joking.

Sam bobs his head into a slow nod, rubbing his face alongside Dean’s chest. He takes in the smell of his brother, Dean’s aftershave and shower gel. Dean looks like it’s just another day at the office, dressed as usual, shaved and his hair formed with styling gel. He does it on purpose, Sam thinks, won’t give the hellhounds and demons the gratification of seeing him scared. 

But he must be. Scared out of his wits, and quite possibly he’s putting up an act just as much as Sam is. But Dean’s always exceled at this game, and Sam can’t hold a candle to his brother’s skills. Dean will keep up his act long after the make-up on Sam’s face has been smeared by tears, and the costume has been torn to shreds. 

Dean’s fingers search their way up to Sam’s face, brushing against Sam’s cheeks. Sam thinks that this is it; that he’s going to burst now, shatter into pieces because it feels like the pain just keeps pulling at his heart, trying to tear it in two. 

“You have to stay here,” Dean whispers, and he continues before Sam can catch his breath to protest. “If you don’t, what was the deal good for anyway? I wanted you to live, Sammy.” 

“I don’t know if I can.” Right there. He sounds helpless, and feels naked, his voice cracking. He finds that he’s beyond caring. 

“Yes you can.” Dean’s fingers still caress the skin on his face and Sam manages to hold off more tears from coming. The touch of Dean’s hand on his skin is strangely soothing, and maybe Dean knows that.

“And you know why?” Dean asks. 

“No.”

“Because...” 

Sam can barely hear Dean’s words; he speaks that quietly. Carefully. 

“...knowing that you’re still here and alive...that the deal was worth it...then maybe...” His voice trails off but Sam waits in silence, fingers still brushing against his cheek. Eventually, Dean picks up his voice again. 

“Then maybe I won’t forget. What it’s like to be human.”

Sam turns his face to look at Dean, sees the despair in Dean’s eyes. Dean can’t go in peace unless he knows that Sam won’t do anything stupid, won’t go to Hell. That he will live on, the emphasis being on _live_. Live, not simply be alive.

“Yeah,” Sam says. 

“Promise you’ll be fine.”

Sam tries to swallow the lump in his throat down, he doesn’t quite manage it. “Promise.”

Dean remains still, but Sam can almost hear the relieved smile, the silent ‘thank you’, the short little laugh because all his affairs are settled now. Because he doesn’t need to worry about that anymore. 

Dean pulls Sam up just enough so that their faces are at the same height, before he bends forward and presses his lips against Sam’s. Gentle and slow, an aftermath of the six days that passed before this, and yet this brief kiss is all that Sam ever needed. If there are things like perfect moments than this is one of them. Sam closes his eyes, and for a second or two he forgets about the hellhounds and lets Dean hold him, and it feels like forever. 

When Dean releases him there is a moment of silence, only their breaths cut the air, fill up the room like thunderbolts. 

“They’re coming,” Dean says. Sam’s hand yanks up and grabs Dean’s hand, squeezes it. 

“I will come for you.” He won’t go to Hell. Unless it’s to save Dean, both of their lives. “I will get you out of there. I promise.”

Dean’s lips curve to a smile, and he kisses Sam’s forehead. 

“I know you will.”

-end-


End file.
